After
a lecture, a man in a straw hat stopped. Will you walkwith
mein the city? Walt Whitman offered his arm and
nodded

toward
the boardwalk and promenade. The fireflies sparked.I took his
arm and tucked my free hand into my lace shawl.

My
black skirt collected the dust of the day, sent it in whirlin
the honey light. Aware of Walt Whitman’s saunter,

I
stretched my ankles, stiff with the art required to keep upwith
the audience of a thousand to hear Men and Their Whims.

I
said, I’ve read your Leaves of Grass and the
reviews. Newspaper critics wrote he was a man always
touching himself

in
his poems. None denied the weight of the man’s bodyin
“Song of Myself.” I wondered if women were merely a
prop.

Walt
Whitman’s elbows jutted rakishly at pairs of boys just
old enough to be men. They watched our blue eyes.

Walt
Whitman stroked the heft of his beard. Like an invitation, his
trouser buttons winked. We turned a corner and paused

before
a blacksmith’s shop. Inside a red hot point plungedinto
the barrel in a hiss. The man at the bellows flexed.

Whitman’s
gaze lingered. I asked, How do you do it?Find a paper to
print your reviewsof your own poetry collection?

Never
averting his eyes from the man, Walt Whitman smirked.Walt
Whitman tipped his hat. Never tell anyonewho you
really are.

Laura
Madeline Wiseman
has a MA from the University of Arizona and a PhD from the
University of Nebraska-Lincoln where she teaches English. Her
work has appeared in Margie,
Poet Lore, Blackbird, Arts & Letters, Prairie Schooner,
American Short Fiction, The Fence, The Los Angeles Review
and 13th
Moon.
She is the author of several collections of poetry, including
Branding
Girls (Finishing
Line Press, 2011), Ghost
Girl
(Pudding House, 2010), and My
Imaginary (Dancing
Girl Press, 2010). Recently, she has collaborated with the artist
Kate Johnson on a limited edition series of broadsides that
combine poetry and graphic art printed at the Prairie Center of
the Arts.